Drabbles, Sprints, and Fluffs
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl, AU/ZA Drabbles and Fluffs. These are short little snippets of probable hot garbage. I'll share them in case you want to read them, though. They may inspire something longer if you're interested. Rated for all possibilities.
1. Innocence

She looked so damned innocent standing there. That was, perhaps, the greatest giveaway that there was something to be concerned about.

"What the hell'd you do?" Daryl asked, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the way she looked at him with those big, blue eyes.

"Before you get upset," she said, leaving her words trailing off.

No matter what it was, the truth of the matter was that Daryl wasn't going to get upset. Not really. He knew what she'd been through before. He knew what her husband had been like. It had been years ago—almost a decade—since she'd been married to Ed Peletier, but that was the kind of shit that really stuck with someone.

Even if Daryl got upset, he was very careful about how he handled being upset. He was good, too, at walking away and coming back when he knew how to be upset without acting like an idiot or yelling at her.

Nothing she did was worth breaking her. Daryl knew, all too well, what that felt like.

"What'd you do?" He asked.

"It's just a little scratch," she said.


	2. Hangover

Daryl ripped open the curtain and laughed to himself at the annoyed growl that issued forth from under the blankets that were half ripped off the bed.

"Good mornin', sunshine," Daryl said. "Time to rise and shine!"

"I'll kill you," Carol growled and hugged her pillow tightly to her head. Daryl laughed again.

"Why you wanna be so damned harsh to the love of your fuckin' life?" Daryl asked.

"It's 8:30, I have a hangover, and you're annoying me."

"I told you not to stay out all night," Daryl said. "Told you Andrea's a bad fuckin' influence. But you didn't listen and now it's time to pay the price. Come on—we got work to do."


	3. Quiet One

"You were always the quiet one," Merle said.

"Thought I was the sweet one," Daryl said.

Merle laughed to himself.

"That too, brother," he mused. "Still—I can't help but feelin' this is a whole damn different kinda quiet than before. At the risk of pissin' you off…wanna talk about it?"

Daryl shrugged his shoulders and sat staring at the same rock on the ground that he'd been staring at for what seemed like two hours. Merle was pretty sure that no rock in their grass-free backyard warranted that much attention.

"She don't love me, Merle," Daryl said finally. "And—what's worse? She ain't never gonna love me."

Merle hated to see Daryl so damned deflated. He'd do almost anything to make him feel better when he got like that.

He banged his hand on his brother's back like it might offer some comfort.

"She don't hardly know you," Merle said. "You ain't hardly give her a chance to know you. But when you do? Hell—she ain't gonna be able to do nothin' else but love your sorry ass."

Daryl laughed to himself, but it wasn't sincere.

"You think?" He asked with the smallest glimmer of hope.

"I fuckin' know it," Merle said.


	4. Witchcraft

Witchcraft was something of myth and fairy tales, but here it was; undeniably real.

Daryl stood there, staring at Carol while she hugged herself in the dim light of the cell. She didn't look quite as queasy as she'd looked when she sought him out earlier, but she didn't look fully restored to health. Her proverbial sea legs, clearly, still had not been found.

"It's some kind of…curse," Carol said.

She swallowed down, hard enough that Daryl heard her swallow, with the last word. He wasn't sure if she was swallowing against the nausea, against the tears that were still causing her to hiccup at intervals, or if she was swallowing out of something like fear.

"I don't think I'd call it a curse," Daryl said, his own stomach flipping uncomfortably as he even ventured to think, for the first time since he'd begun to digest the news only moments before, of what he might call this.

"She's a witch," Carol said.

She was talking about the woman who they had found walking down the side of the highway with nothing more than a small bag slung over her shoulder. She had, for a companion, a young girl of hardly ten years old that had never, to Daryl's knowledge, spoken a word. The old woman appeared to be about a hundred years old. She was toothless, and she barely stood over four feet tall. Still, she was one of the happiest damned people that Daryl had ever met—even if he couldn't always understand her mutterings.

"She's absolutely a witch," he agreed nodding her head.

"She did this," Carol said. "She—made this happen."

Daryl stared at her a moment and then laughed to himself. He swallowed the laughter down immediately when Carol's expression shifted to a furrowed-brow glare of warning. Daryl shrugged his shoulder.

"I ain't gonna say that witch woman ain't had no part in it," Daryl said. "But—she weren't exactly workin' alone."


	5. Bugged

Daryl came in the room and immediately passed Carol the plate and forks. She'd told him to bring a piece of pie that was large enough for two people, but he'd practically brought half of the pie from the kitchen.

As soon as he closed the bedroom door behind him, he started looking around the room like he'd dropped something and was trying to hunt it down.

Carol sat cross-legged on the bed and watched him. She tasted the pie to entertain herself while she waited for him to join her again.

He'd put on his boxers, at least, before disappearing into the kitchen for something to give them the strength they would require to get through the rest of the plans that they'd made for the night. Carol had pulled his shirt over her head, but she hadn't bothered with anything else.

Carol's concern grew as she watched Daryl look for what he'd dropped.

Soon, he wasn't simply looking under things—under the dresser, under the bed, under the nightstand. Soon, he moved on to running his fingers around the edge of the dresser and the nightstand. And then, he started rifling through the top drawer of his dresser.

"Daryl—" Carol said when she couldn't wait any longer to know what had come over him. "What are you looking for?"

"Shhhh," Daryl said while he continued to search. "I'm lookin' for where the hell he hid it."

"He?" Carol asked.

"Merle," Daryl said. "I think the room is bugged. Stepped out on the porch to smoke a cigarette an' his asshole was sittin' out there, grinnin', bigger'n shit. Started givin' me hell about—what the hell we was doin' in here. Asshole's listenin' in on us."

Carol laughed to herself.

"He might be listening," she offered, "but—I don't think the room is bugged." Daryl looked at her, brow-furrowed. It was all she needed to hear his question loud and clear. She smiled at him. "You're not as quiet as you think." pan/p


	6. Caring is Sharing

** AN: This was a little five minute "write" that I challenged myself to do. It's just a simple little thing. **

**I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think! **

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"You said you didn't want anything," Daryl said.

He bit into his burger and chewed through the bite of food. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she was watching him. She was staring hard at his lips. She let her eyes drift to his hands for just a moment before she brought them back to rest on his lips again.

She tipped her head to the side, her brow furrowed, and her tongue darted out to taste her bottom lip before it darted back in again. Daryl loved her lips. He was not, however, overly fond of the sincerely meant pout that she was wearing.

"Don't look at me like I just kicked you in the shins," Daryl said after he'd swallowed down the bite of burger. "I asked you. Called you. I said whatta you want from town? And you said you ain't wanted a thing."

"I didn't know you were going to the Dairy-O," Carol pouted.

"Where the hell'd you think I was going?" Daryl asked.

"You've been going to the fish place the last couple of times that you picked anything up," Carol said. "I thought you were going there." She shook her head. "I don't like the fries there. They taste like fish and…that doesn't agree with me lately."

"Did you ever think of just asking me to go to the Dairy-O?" Daryl asked.

Carol's frown only deepened. Daryl laughed to himself.

"You look any sadder," Daryl warned, "and you gonna look like a Basset Hound, meltin' in the sun over there."

"The baby really likes French fries," Carol said with a sigh, picking at a piece of splintered wood on the aging park picnic table.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Don't you use my kid against me," he warned.

"I guess—it's better if…he gets used to disappointment early," Carol said.

Daryl smirked to himself when he caught her peeking at him, just barely, while she pretended to be focused on the piece of wood she was harassing with her fingernail. He shook his head and pushed the cardboard basket of fries in her direction.

"Carin' is sharin'," he teased. "Eat the fries." Carol smiled, immediately cheered, and half-jumped toward the fries before she stopped.

"No," she said. "You're right. I don't want to take your food. I said I didn't want any."

Daryl laughed to himself and, from the paper bag he'd rested on the bench beside him, he fished out a second cardboard basket of fries.

"Good damn thing, Carol, that I know you better'n that."


	7. A Walk in the Park

"I don't care if it's freezing, I want to walk through the park!"

Carol tugged at Daryl's hand and pulled him toward the park. There was already a mass of people going in and out of the area. There were adults in costumes, rocking back and forth on legs that proved their sobriety was limited. There were children running and screaming and waving plastic buckets and glowing green glowsticks.

Daryl groaned.

"Do we have to?" He asked.

"They put out the pumpkins!" Carol insisted.

The Jack-O-Lanterns were a town tradition. Local businesses decorated them and donated them to the park for their Halloween decorations. Different groups signed up to hang lights and banners and to create scarecrows and place hay bales.

It was a Sweet Junction tradition.

Carol tugged at Daryl's hand. He was freezing. It was a colder than usual Halloween. Her hand was like ice in his. But his feet were already headed toward the park because he couldn't say no to her. He never could. She knew that, too, but he could confidently say that she didn't really take advantage of that knowledge—or her power over him. If she wanted to see the pumpkins, he was going to have to brave the cold and the crowd to see the pumpkins.

And, if he was lucky, she'd make it worth his while when they got home, anyway.

"Here," he said, shucking off his outermost layer and putting it over her shoulders before she could attempt to protest. "At least take my jacket. I don't want'cha freezin' to death."


	8. Sound

Daryl narrowed his eyes. Then he closed them. It always helped to lessen the use of one of his senses when he needed to strengthen another. He willed his ears to open. Even if such a thing wasn't really possible, he felt like it was.

The woods around him were quiet again. He could hear things, of course—he could hear all the sounds that told him the woods were alive with game and, yes, even Walkers—but he couldn't hear the sound he'd heard before. He couldn't hear what had made him stop, for just a second, and focus his attention.

Walkers made a crashing sort of noise when they moved around. They shuffled, dragging dead feet. They didn't often break sticks because that would have required a dexterity which many of them, especially these days, simply didn't have.

The sound of the stick breaking was a clear indication that Daryl wasn't alone.

And he had a gut feeling that it hadn't been an animal that had broken the stick. The crack had been too loud. The stick had been too large.

Willing himself to focus, stilling even his breath, he listened deeper. He heard it. It was the softest of footfalls. The person was walking lightly. They were trying to keep from drawing attention. It sounded clear, though, that they were concerned about drawing Walker attention. They weren't trying to be too quiet for Daryl to hear.

He turned, bow raised, just as the person stepped from beyond a small, thick patch of trees. He took aim and, as soon as his eyes focused, his heart stopped. He dropped the bow.

"You scared the shit outta me!" He growled.

Her bow was raised, too, but she lowered it quickly.

"Me? You just about got yourself shot!" Carol said. "We agreed this was my section!"

"The deer come this way! Blame him, not me."

"I could have shot him!"

"Not if I shoot him first," Daryl said with a smile.


	9. Blood

"I'll take care of it," Carol said.

Daryl had gone at least two or three shades whiter than he normally was, and she thought his hands were shaking beyond what he could normally blame on the nicotine addiction.

"I got it," Daryl said.

"I'm serious," Carol insisted, reaching toward him. She grimaced at the movement.

"You can't even sit up good."

"Then hand me the bottle and a rag," Carol said.

"I got it," Daryl insisted again, though he'd made no movement since she'd first revealed the cut to him.

"I'm going to bleed to death waiting, Daryl," she said, putting enough irritation behind her tone to try to spur him into action. He jumped. It had worked—at least a little. There was a threat to the situation that got him moving. She laughed to herself when she noticed his fingers trembling as he began mopping away at the cut. She focused on the humor she felt instead of the pain.

"The hell you laughin' at?" He asked, finally.

"You're shaking," Carol said. "I mean—you're a hunter. You skin animals every day. And—I've never even seen you shake after killing a Walker or…a person, for that matter."

Daryl hummed at her.

"There's blood," he said. "And then there's blood. Besides—there's shit in life that's a whole lot scarier than Walkers, or even fuckin' psychos, comin' after my ass."

"What's scarier than that?" Carol asked, her stomach clenching as she realized she might already know the answer.

"Them comin' for you," Daryl said.


	10. Bath

"You need a bath," Carol said.

"I'm fine," Daryl insisted.

"Your clothes are starting to grow to you," Carol said, crossing her arms across her chest.

He sat, his back against the porch railing and stared at her. She sighed, seeing that he wasn't going to budge, and she walked over and sat down next to him.

"I don't understand," she said. "On the road—all I heard from you was that you couldn't wait to find some soap. Now we have soap. We have hot water. We have everything you need. Why are you fighting this?"

"Don't want to play their stupid ass game," Daryl said. "You an' me? We know this ain't real. They're playin' house in here. You live like this? You forget how to live out there."

Carol smiled softly at him.

"Not you and me," she said. "We don't forget."

"Look at how you're dressed. You look ridiculous—playin' their damn game."

"That's all it is," Carol said. "A game. We play this one to survive, right? Just like—all the other games. Now—come on. You need a bath. You smell like a wet dog."

Daryl sniffed himself.

"It ain't that bad," he said.

Carol raised her eyebrows at him.

"If I offer to wash your back, will that help?" She teased.

"Stop," Daryl said.

"One of these days, Daryl—I am going to stop," she warned.

Her face ran warm with the warning—with the meaning behind it. Her stomach clenched, wondering if it was a threat or truth. Daryl's face ran red, too. He got up, though, and stood in front of her.

"I'll take a bath, but…I ain't dressin' up like you."

"Fine," Carol said.

Daryl walked around her and into the house. He stopped in the doorway and looked back.

"Well," he said, "come on!"


	11. Awkward

"So, that was awkward."

Carol's mind raced. She probably wouldn't have chosen awkward as the word that she would use to describe what had just happened.

She might have used mind-blowing. She might have used overwhelming. She might have used perfect, or even long overdue. She wouldn't have used awkward.

The only awkward thing about it, really, was that it had been something they'd been practically pushed into doing. They wanted to be accepted by this group. They didn't want to draw attention to themselves. They didn't want to have too many eyes plastered on them. They'd said they were married—it had slipped out as an unplanned part of their ruse. Really, they'd agreed, more than anything, with the person who had welcomed them and suggested they were married.

The kiss?

The kiss hadn't been planned. It had been a spur of the moment thing. It was a romantic moment, surrounded by other couples, and there had been kissing. It seemed only natural that they would kiss. There was, after all, mistletoe.

"I don't know," Carol said.

"You don't think it was—awkward?" Daryl asked. Something in his voice changed. Something in his expression, too, changed.

Carol shrugged her shoulders. Her face burned warm.

"I think it was—nice," she admitted. "Maybe—just a little awkward. But nothing that…"

"Nothing that…" Daryl pressed after a moment.

Carol's heart thundered in her chest. She'd been trying to get Daryl to kiss her for years. She'd been wondering what it would take. All it took, in the end, was a ball of fake mistletoe and being surrounded by other happy couples kissing.

She wondered just how daring she could be tonight.

"Nothing that—couldn't get better with practice," she ventured.

Her stomach untangled itself when Daryl's face ran red and he smiled.

"I guess—we could practice," he said. "If you want, I mean."

Carol smiled. She nodded her head.

"I'd like that," she assured him. "Very much."


End file.
